A Roll of the Dice
by Sono la Notte
Summary: There are different sides of every person, and from each side spawns a story. Tells stories of the Modern Assassins, BEFORE they were assassins. Formerly Miles From Home. NOVICE CHAPTER UP.
1. Miles From Home

_This is a little three-part oneshot I made during the last week or so...hope you like it!_

**Disclaimer: I don't own Assassin's Creed...but I do own a particular assassin in this story...**

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Miles From Home

Part One: Once Upon A Time

…there was a moment when I tried to remember. It scared me, and I didn't want to remember what I saw. I was still under the impression that I was a lonely bartender from the city, and I didn't have a clue what was going on. I had no one to talk to, no friends, no father-figure, no family. As far as I was concerned, there was only three people in the entire universe. Me, Lucy, and Vidic.

Life was whittled down to a couple of eight-hour sessions in the machine, and after that, I would fall straight asleep, exhausted. I didn't even have time to shower for that time, and I was beginning to smell. I was sure the machine had to be sanitized after each session, but I couldn't get the smell of my own self out of my head wherever I walked. I had once tried to take a shower, but I had all too soon found the seven cameras and three microphone bugs surrounding me. I felt entirely self-conscious and just went to sleep.

Then there were the dreams. The flashes of blinding red light all around me, the confusing characters and diagrams.

I had hardly any sleep, especially when Vidic once left me in the machine for almost twice the normally allotted time. Lucy was not happy about this, and I could barely walk afterwards, let alone make it to the bed. Exhaustion was racing through my veins, and I felt like I was losing bits and pieces of myself. My vision would black out in one eye, recover, and resume in the other eye. My arms felt like weights, and they were ultimately numb. My legs moved on their own, as if controlled by a remote. Breathing was hard to do, and my lungs felt heavy. I was so, so dizzy. I made it to the bed, but my satisfaction came too soon. The only part of my body that had actually made it to the bed was my left arm, the rest of me pitching forward onto the floor. My head cracked against the strange glass tile, and my vision finally faded to black. I could feel the hands tugging me onto the bed, hear Lucy's worried and upset tone as she accused Vidic of this entire mess. Vidic shrugged her off, bringing in the fact that she wasn't there at all that day, and where had she been. Lucy was quiet, and I couldn't hear her answer before slipping back into unconsciousness.

"Desmond, it's time to go." She said, covered in blood, and obviously preoccupied. I was so confused, with the outcome of Altaïr, and the new ability I had gained. The signs all over the walls and floor, the blood of Subject 16 and Leila Marino. I didn't want to sleep in the bed he had died in; it was haunted. At least the strange dreams' meanings were coming into view, and I was given a bit of insight to what was going on.

Lucy had practically shoved me into the machine, the one thing I didn't want to do, but I had shrugged it off like I was okay, like I was just fine. Fear was gripping me like a baseball bat. As the glass screen encased my head, the dreaded familiarity of the slight shock into hypnosis coursed through my body before I went limp, sucked into the machine yet again. I felt my eyes close, but I was in third person, nonresponsive.

Just being there is like running from the cops. You have no idea what's going on, but you do. You wish to be anywhere but there, and you can't. We realize this at the last minute, and we don't realize our consequences of running away until we want to go back.

Blurred images, screams, worried words and whispers, and a shout of triumph passed through me. I felt so confused. Where was Altaïr? This was…Ezio? Was that the name? Ezio?

Then I was pulled out. The shortest session I've ever been in, but I was sure that this wasn't just for research. Lucy ordered me to follow her, and I started jabbering nervously as we walked outside the Animus room. Very bland and tasteless, interior decorating was obviously not in the future of Abstergo. The windows we passed had more machines and I found them both interesting and confusing. Where was this place?

Lucy took me down to what looked like a parking lot, and we encountered about seven guards. Lucy took on five easily, while I struggled with two. Between them beating me with sticks and punching me, I could make out the bumblebee-yellow Porche 911 Turbo in one of the nearby spaces. Who did _that _belong to? A Ducati motorbike rested in one corner, and I felt my heart surge with nostalgia as I shoved a man's nose into his brain. The words on the walls were most definitely in Italian, directing people left and right, up and out. With the dead men on the floor, although some were most definitely still alive, Lucy ordered me to get into the car. I started going around to the passenger side, but the trunk opened. She had to be kidding. I asked why, and she merely stated, "Security measures." And I was in the trunk.

About an hour into the drive, I was hit with a wave of realization so hard I almost stopped breathing. I killed two people without thinking. What was that machine doing to me? I had been a pacifist all my life, never wanting to kill anyone. That's why I ran away from—no, I couldn't call it home. I breathed slowly, my eyes open, in case the trunk opens suddenly. Lucy hung a sharp right, crashing my head into the side of the trunk. I groaned in pain, and I heard a slight "sorry" from the front. What was so bad with the back seat?

I tried to lull myself into an indifference, but my mind kept screaming at me, "YOU KILLED THEM, YOU KILLED THEM, YOU KILLED THEM," like vultures circling above their prey. The car horn honked twice, and Lucy swerved the car out of the way. I braced myself against the front and back walls that held me in. I closed my eyes, but opened them quickly. I didn't want to fall asleep. I didn't want to dream.

But eventually, raw exhaustion got the best of me, and I slept.

And I remembered.

Part Two: Down the Rabbit Hole

…I went, down, down, down. Falling past memories and events I had blocked out of my mind since I was a teenager. My dream started at the beginning, like all good stories do.

The beginning was when I first recalled ever living. Unfortunately, it was almost dying. I was standing atop an impossible structure, with about five other boys my age. "Jump, Des! Are you a chicken?" I was about eight, as I recall. We were over ten stories in the air, and I was looking down at the miniscule pit of foam we were supposed to jump into. A man with a megaphone, Mr. K, shouted, "Jump, Miles!"

I became extremely nauseous, and I started swaying on the spot. This cannot be happening. Why were we even up here? "Desmond, just _go_." Someone from behind me said. Another voice replied, "He's not gonna do it. Just like last week." Last week, I had passed out from looking at the sea-green foam too long. The first voice, the calmer one, said, "I'll count to three for you. Okay?" I didn't look back, only nodded. "One…" I nudged my toes out to the edge. A rock fell down beneath me, and my breath hitched in my throat. The wind whipped at my face, my eyes squinting in the desert sun. What was I doing? "Two…" the boy said, his voice growing in volume over the wind.

"Three!" another said, and a split second before I was going to do it, perfectly, a pair of tough hands shoved me off, and I spun around as I pitched forward. They were all smirking, except for one. His eyes showed worry, and shock, and fear.

Falling is like winning a card game. You don't know you've done anything right until the last second, when everyone shows their hand or, in this case, when Fate allows you to live another day.

Okay, I screamed like a girl all the way to the bottom. I blacked out a second before I hit the pit of foam, and I woke up a couple of minutes later, surrounded by the worried faces of my parents and peers. I was supremely embarrassed, and I couldn't just stay home and do my work there. No. This was a prison, for children of my age. Although they didn't know it, I did. We were forced to do things like this every day, and I was the only one out of the seven of us who didn't want to do it. I learned the word "inhumane" and I started using it more and more until it was my nickname. Inhumane, why don't you go fall off the climbing wall? Oh wait, you already did that. Inhumane, go throw up in Anatomy. You already did that. Inhumane. Inhumane. Inhumane. I was the shadow on the wall, the ghost in the room.

Age ten. We watch a selection of videos of people getting killed: John F. Kennedy, a reenactment of Abraham Lincoln. I couldn't take it. I passed out when I saw my own parents on the screen, they were stabbing this poor man to death, and he was screaming, screaming, screaming.

The memories of the screams lasted well into the night, and I had the worst nightmares for years after that. I didn't let my mother into my room, or my father, after that night. They would stab me to death, like they had that other man.

My father would roar through the barricaded door, "Desmond Miles, you are an _assassin_! You will _learn_ this sooner or later, but you cannot change your destiny!" he screamed as I cowered in my closet, shaking and sobbing with fear. Everything I knew had been shattered in a couple of moments. "If you do not kill, you will _be_ killed, do you understand me?!" he yelled, his voice hoarse from shouting. I just curled up into a ball and shouted that maybe I did want to die after all.

There was silence, and my ears rang. I had no idea what I had just said, but in that moment, the door came crashing down, along with everything I had piled up against it. I started screaming in terror, the look on my father's face was murderous. I screamed louder and louder as he took the quick steps near me and yanked me up by my arm, so I was dangling in the air like a squirming doll. I started kicking and thrashing around, my voice interrupted by breaths. I felt a strangling feeling around my neck and lungs as I was forced to look into my father's eyes. I kept sobbing, my face slick with tears. I could barely hear him, but my father went on to say the most important things I'd ever hear in my life.

"I'm not going to kill you. I'm not going to hurt you. It's right of you to think that I will, and I'm sorry. You shouldn't have seen those things, but it's necessary that you do. Desmond, nothing is true. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to kill you. Everything is permitted. I know I did those things, and I agreed to let you see them. I'm sorry, Desmond, I'm so sorry." He wrapped his burly arms around my small, withered frame, and I hugged him back. "I love you, Desmond." He said into my chest. I kept crying into his shoulder.

Age twelve. I had started a journal, and one day I wrote, 'On the eastern wall, there is a hole big enough for me to get through.' I had maneuvered my head and shoulders out of the facility, but all I saw was more and more sand, leading into the desert horizon of plateaus and mountains in the distance, the ranges of the mountains foggy with clouds and rain that never hit us. I breathed in the air like a fish in water, and I felt like there was so much more for me to see. Most of my training now was just physical activities, and I had finally mastered my fear of the climbing wall, the jumping tower, and the foam pit. I was more confident now that I was breathing new air, air that no one else could breathe.

Eventually I had dug a hole in the three-foot deep cement that was too big to be inconspicuous, so I had dyed a tarp the color of the cement and hung it up over the hole. It was perfect. No one knew where I was for three hours a day, and no one liked to venture too close to the walls besides me.

There were only six families or so, all of them with five people in their families. I had a mother, a father, and my mother was pregnant with twins for a long while, and when my two sisters were born, I was thirteen. The hole could fit me and a table, chair, and I would spend hours by myself, playing cards or doing chemistry or history homework. The homework made me feel alone, and I loved doing it. I was extremely bright, and I would constantly annoy my teacher about the "outside world". I was branded as a freethinker, and shunned by most of the people, albeit unofficially. My parents encouraged conformity, but I would snap back with the usual "why don't you just let me go" and I would be grounded. The windows were easy to unlock, and every night, I would sneak out to my little cove with my journal and a flashlight, recollecting on past thoughts and memories. Remembering was so easy back then because I hadn't done anything of note. But I kept notes anyways.

I read the entries aloud to myself, as if someone listening would understand what was going through my head. "…today was okay. I dug about three inches out, and I could touch the sand outside. I brought some to my room as well, and the smell of freedom is amazing. All this history, all of the world…it's just waiting for me to go out there. Ready to welcome me back. I wonder if there are some nice people out there that would like me. People that would let me just go to school, and not have to jump off of towers or climb impossible walls or rifle around dead bodies or have contests to see who could withstand more pain inflicted by a knife stolen from the kitchen. That's mostly what I want. Just to get out." I would hear a patroller coming around and I would cover the flashlight with my palm, and I held my breath. I started counting to ten. When that failed to calm me down, I started reciting the periodic table, and years and dates. By the time I got to the death or King Louis XIII, the air was turning red and I dashed home to change and resume my life.

I was introduced to the dirtbike that year, and I was immediately engrossed in it. I would spend all of my time on the bike, and I excelled against all of the other kids in the class. The rush of the air coming towards me, displacing on all sides of my face, was like a drug. The power between my legs and under my hands shook my very soul to its core. I was alive. I had a pulse. I understood life.

Age fifteen. My birthday was the next day. I was now a master of the bike, and I had saved up enough gasoline and supplies so I could leave through the hole. I had the hole dug to the size of the table's surface, and I could most definitely fit a bike through there, let alone myself. I didn't dare leave yet, only when the time was right. On my sixteenth birthday. That was my present to myself.

I slept in my bed that night, my backpack and helmet under the bed. There was a knock on the door at around ten at night. My watch was on my wrist. It would take too long to put it on as I was leaving. I kept quiet, and I hoped the person would go away.

It was my father. He opened the door, and I faced away from the light from the hall, the desert moon bathing my room in white and shadows. "Hey, son." He sat on the edge of the bed, but not on my feet, thankfully. They had my white slip-ons on them. A large hand rested on my shoulder. "Desmond? I know you're awake."

I rolled my eyes and gave up, sitting up in my bed. I had taken precaution and worn a plain black shirt, made to look like a sleep shirt. I hoped it would do the trick. "What?" I asked, making it sound like I was tired and cranky.

"How are you, kid?" he asked. I bit my lip.

"Well, Dad, I'm just fine and dandy, given that I'm trying to sleep right now." I said in my most sarcastic tone, wanting him to get offended and leave.

"Desmond. Tell me what's going on. You barely eat, all you do is ride that stupid bike, you never talk to anyone, do you even know your sisters' names?" his eyes were filled with worry, and I realized that everything he said was true. But I lied anyway.

"Honestly, I'd rather not get into the components of Mom's cooking, it's not a stupid bike like you say, people just aren't interesting to me, and they're Mary and Myra, and why do you care anyway? I'm different from the kid I was, it's not like I'm going to do anything stupid." I stared him down, but he wouldn't waver. His calm eyes pinned me in place, but my defiance was obvious in my face.

"Desmond, that's exactly what I think you're going to do." I felt my face get hot and spikes of nerves prodded my cheeks. He couldn't know. Never. I was careful, and I covered my tracks. "Desmond, this isn't about me, is it? About gaining my approval?" he sighed after a minute of silence.

"No. God, no. Why would you think that?" I asked, leaning back into the bed. I buried my face in the cool wall.

"Desmond, when are you going to ever talk to me?" he asked softly.

"Tomorrow. Talk to me tomorrow." I said, and he got up and left the room. When I looked down at the pillow, I noticed the two wet stains. My watch said that it was only minutes to midnight. I must have fallen asleep for an hour or so, but it was hard to tell. I cursed myself and got up out of bed, silently pulling on a white sweatshirt and tugging my backpack and helmet out of the shadows. I had packed an extra pair of socks, my journal, a knife, a lighter, and a couple packages of food in the backpack, but I saw that there were two bundles of green paper that I recognized as money. There was a note on a white piece of paper, and it said 'just in case'. It didn't look like my father's handwriting, but it looked familiar. I slung the backpack over my shoulder and opened the window.

I looked around for about ten seconds, and I dashed to the hole, holding the keys in my pocket like a lifeline. I disappeared under the tarp, but was pinned against the wall by two phantom hands, one covering my mouth and the other holding my hands above my head. I lashed out with my legs instinctively, catching my captor in the shin. They grunted loudly, louder than I would have ever done in the hole. They let go of my mouth and I shushed them. They staggered back, and I picked up my dropped helmet. "Who are you?" I hissed, reaching for the keys in my pocket. Due to the enormous amount of room, I assumed they had taken the bike out.

"Really, Desmond?" they whispered, but I still couldn't make out who they were. The voice was familiar, though. I knew it… "It's me, Gabe." He whispered. Gabe was the one who had counted to three for me.

"Wha—why are you here?" I stuttered, trying to answer that question for myself.

"To make sure you don't do something stupid." He said, laughing. I heard him lean against the further wall. I stayed silent. "I followed you out here one night, and I listened to you read." He said. I felt my face get hot, and I wondered how fast it would take for me to crawl through the hole and start running. Better yet, how long it would take for him to catch up. Where was the bike? "Desmond, you don't belong here." He said abruptly.

"You just realized this?" I asked, scoffing lightly.

"Desmond, the bike is outside. You need to get _out_ of here." He found my hand in the dark, and squeezed it once. It was warm, and soft. I felt like a small child being led to school, oblivious to the world. I could feel his eyes on me, though I couldn't see them. They were green, I think.

"Why do you think I'm here, Gabe?" I said sardonically.

He didn't respond, only led me through the hole to the other side. I felt the familiar rush of air, the rush of freedom, and I felt uncoordinated, like a newborn animal. The sky was inky blue-black. Gabe led me over to where the bike was, guiding my hand to the handles and the seat. "You feel it?" he asked.

"No, I don't." I said sarcastically. I started to swing my leg over, but it was caught in midair by one of Gabe's hands, and I was thrown off balance. "What are you doing?" I hissed as my back hit the sand.

He merely chuckled and said, "Do you know how adorably stupid you are?" he asked. I felt my ears get hot, and I was grateful for the dark, yet again. He led me by my hand, yet again, over to the wall, and I was pulled down into a sitting position.

"Well how stupid am I?" I asked, irritated that I was being denied my escape.

"Well, for one, if you didn't realize, you have over two thousand dollars in your backpack, there. Who do you think put that there? Your father?" how had he gotten into my room without my noticing? "You'd think that a guy like you would do some investigating. But no, you continued reading your life story to the world, letting us all know that you thought the world was great outside, and that life in here was hell. Your views on killing, and climbing, and your wonderful little fear of heights." I felt myself grow very, very hot and very, very cold at the same time. Why on earth did I ever write that? Let alone, _read_ it? "Aww, don't be discouraged now. I've got the entire story down." I could hear the smile in his voice.

"Wh—why didn't you tell me that you…well, were there?" I asked, not knowing what to ask.

"For one, I'd rather not discuss why I even came back to listen again, but you are just so intriguing, Des." He slapped my leg lightly, and I felt like a small child again, like there was a joke I couldn't understand.

We talked well into the night, and I didn't realize it, but I was moving closer and closer to him. This was the most talking I'd ever done. My watch showed that it was 4:17 when the sky began to start to lighten. I could see the basic contours and lines in his face, his smile glued on the entire time. It was dazzling, and I felt entranced by his words.

"Desmond, it's time." He said at one point. The sky was a blue-pink color, and I could see the sun beginning to crawl up the mountains in the distance.

"What?" I asked, as he stood up. "But…" I realized that I was sixteen in that moment.

"Desmond, you had made this decision a long time ago. There's no backing out now." He shook his head to emphasize his point.

"But…you can go with me! I can get you out, and we can just leave, and never have to see this place again…" I tried to convince him. The glint off of the bike was shining into my face, and I couldn't see Gabe.

"I can't leave, Desmond. I belong here. As much as I'd like to, I can't." He put the keys in my hand, and pushed me towards the bike, his hands on my shoulders. I looked down at the keys in my hand. "You can do it. I know you can."

"Will I ever see you again? Out there, I mean?" I asked, a little nervously.

"If you look hard enough. Get going."

Slowly, I lifted one leg over the bike, sitting down slowly. The sun was raising slowly, a sliver of light over the silhouetted mountains. The hands left my shoulders, and I felt like a weight was lifted off of me. I put the key in the engine and started the bike. It roared to life. I only had a couple of minutes' head start once I got past the gate, I was told by the security engineer. I revved the engine, and looked back, but Gabe was gone.

Part Three: Happily Never After

…I opened my eyes to consciousness as the car was slowing to a stop. I touched the part of my head that was hit, and prodded it gently. There was nothing too bad about it, and I quickly pulled my hand away when I heard Lucy walk over to the trunk. I cleared my head, ready to go.

"Finally." I said once the trunk was open. I climbed out, stretched a little, and managed to make out the last of what Lucy was saying about where we were. I didn't care, as long as there was a bed I could collapse in. The windows said I was somewhere in Italy, but I couldn't see any landmarks that told me where _in_ Italy, exactly.

"Desmond, are you sure you want to do this?"

"After what those Templar bastards did to me, I'm down with anything right now." I closed my eyes to the memories that came flooding back…shouts, loud sounds, breaking glass, fighting, anger…

_The night was early, and there were only two people in the bar, both regulars. I did what I was supposed to do when I had a moment of peace: clean glasses. It was a Wednesday, and no one came in on Wednesdays. I was twenty-two, and I had been out of the facility for six years. The first town I had come across was pretty run-down and deserted, and I got a job as a floor-sweeper in a bar. When I was twenty, I became a bartender. I lived upstairs from the bar, in a one-room studio with an add-on bathroom. There was another girl that worked here, Harriet, but I wasn't interested in her whatsoever. Beside the fact that she was married, she was most likely the ugliest woman I'd ever seen, but I hadn't gotten out much. The world was being shut down. There would be no dream of Italy, or France, or anywhere. International communication was banned, along with international travels. The world was being taken over by a pharmaceutical company, Abstergo. Apparently they manufactured antidepressants, but their new product, New Fluoride, was on the FDA-banned list a couple years back. Apparently it poisoned an entire town in Ohio._

_ Someone walked into the bar, but he was already loaded. On what, I wasn't too sure, but I got a bad vibe about him. He plopped himself down at the bar and sighed loudly. I set down my glass and walked over. "Anything I can get you?" I asked. He reeked of vodka and smelled like a trash can._

_ "Rum." He said. His eyes were bloodshot, and he had dark rings under them. His breath made me want to hurl._

_ "You sure about that, buddy?" I said, motioning to his current state._

_ "Yeah, I'm sure about it." He rifled around in his pocket, and pulled out a gun. It was black, and scary. But I didn't show it. "My little friend here says to get a move on." None of the other bar patrons had noticed anything, seeing as his low, raspy voice only carried a few feet. I took a deep breath. This was the second gun-wielding guy I'd come across while alone on the shift. My boss was going to kill me for this__…_

_ I started making his drink, and I slid it to him across the slick countertop. "Thanks." He mumbled. I itched to get the gun that was hanging under the table, only a few feet away, but I didn't dare move while the gun was still aimed at me. I wanted to curl up under the bed in my room upstairs, I wanted to hide. But I couldn't move from my spot. I pleaded desperately in my mind for someone to walk in, someone__—_

_ The door opened again, and I almost let out a relieved sigh. It was only about five o'clock, and the sun was still setting, so I could only see the silhouette of the man that walked in. For some reason, my old bike came to mind. My old bike, with its rusty wheels and decaying tires. The man sat down at the bar, his oversized white hood covering his face. His forearms looked bulky, like he was hiding something in his sleeves. He had long black hair that hung in his eyes and face, making it impossible to see him. "Can I get you anything?" I asked, keeping one eye on the gunman._

_ "Something light, for the road." He said, his voice instantly familiar to me. I couldn't tell who it was, but it annoyed me to no end. I made him a gin and tonic, handing it over to him a second later. The gunman was standing up._

_ "Do I know you?" I asked, curiosity taking over. From what I could see, the man in front of me smiled, but only on one side of his face. He reached out for the glass with his left hand, and I noticed the tattoo that was there. It looked like a ring, but blue and it had a strange symbol on it. I had seen this symbol before; I knew it._

_ "You probably do." He said, every word increasing the nagging in the back of my head. "It's been a while, Desmond." He took a generous sip of the clear drink. I felt every hair in my body stand on end._

_ Almost automatically, I responded, "My name is Anthony, not Desmond." Anthony Green was the name I had assumed, though I had no ID, and no Social Security. I was paid in cash each week._

_ "Oh please, Desmond." The man scoffed. The gunman was going to the bathroom. He hadn't taken his gun. I quickly sidestepped over to his place, taking the gun. I dropped it in the trashcan without another word. The man in white went on. "It's not like six years can make you forget." His words stopped me in my tracks. They echoed over and over again. "Six years__…__" he whistled low. "You sure have made something of yourself, Desmond. Tell me, did you ever go to Paris? Italy? It looks like you didn't get very far."_

_ "I told you, my name is _Anthony_." He played with the rim of the glass after I said this._

_ "Sure it is. Sure it is." He muttered. Standing up, he threw a ten down. "Well, if you ever do plan on coming back, you know where to find us." He began to turn around, but I stopped him._

_ "Wait," I said, reaching out to him slightly. A name flashed through my mind. "__…__Gabe?"_

_ "The one and only." He said, chuckling a bit. "I__—__"_

_ At that moment, there was a loud crash. I looked in the direction it came from. Standing in the doorway to the bathrooms was the gunman. "I'm done." He sobbed. "I'm just done."_

_ Gabe stepped forward, grabbing his elbow and twisting the gun out of his hand. Stuffing it into his back pocket, he began to lead the man out the door. I took the ten on the counter, putting it in my pocket. Gabe disappeared through the door, and the bar seemed to get a little colder. The silence that followed was deafening._

_ I didn't see Gabe after that day._

Lucy interrupted my thoughts, once again. "Okay, that's wonderful." She walked away from me, determined, and I prayed that Gabe was safe wherever he was, watching over me and guiding me. Because he was the only thing that tied me to home, even though I was miles from it.

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_That little green button is waiting to be pressed :)_


	2. The Scarlet Crane

_This is another oneshot in my character series for the Modern Assassins. This one is obviously about Rebecca, since she gets no love in the game, except when people call her lesbian. Well, I depict her as that too, but it's sort of canon, think about it._

_Whatever. Call her OOC or not, she doesn't really have a personality.  
_

**Disclaimer: I don't own Assassin's Creed 2...legally.**

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**The Scarlet Crane**

By Bailey Jensen

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Part One: You'll Never Make Me Leave

...Making my way up the stairs, I knew that I had to prepare myself for the things that were imminently going to come. The floorboards creaked from under me as I looked around the place for hopefully wasn't the last time. I had come to enjoy the hideout, with its odd fans and awesome view of Italy. The warm light that seeped in through the transepts gave the rooms a comforting appeal, though the rooms themselves did not have windows.

The call had come in from Lucy only a couple of hours ago, and Shaun had not been surprised that she was coming here. Sure, Lucy was a good friend and all, but after seven _years_ of her being with those Templars at Abstergo, who knows what might've happened? There was no communication to the outside from her, except for a distress call to headquarters telling them of this mysterious Subject 17, or Desmond Miles, as we were supposed to know him. I took my seat at the right side of Baby, tapping a few keys to get it warmed up. The soft cushions on the seat were designed to keep the body comfortable while the mind was doing all the real work. Shaun had once tried to convince me that he should go into the Animus, for there was next to nothing to do, but I wouldn't allow it. I'd seen what Neumann had done to that Leila girl and himself at Abstergo. I had half a mind to show it to Shaun himself, so he could understand the severity of all this. I took a tissue from the desk behind me, and wiped down the HUD.

"This isn't a bloody _hotel_, Rebecca." Shaun inquired far to my right side.

"You're right, it's not a hotel. It's an assassin compound. So should we stain the seats with blood and point daggers at the guy while he sleeps? Do you like that idea?" I asked, albeit snottily. Shaun snorted and returned to tactical support. I gazed down at my left hand, or what was supposed to resemble my left hand. I held it up to my ear and wiggled the fingers quickly. I could almost hear the whir of the motors inside the red casing of metal plates and fake joints. Shaun caught me doing this.

"Will you stop doing that?" he asked, standing up in his chair.

"What?" I asked.

"Wiggling your fingers like that!" he said, coming over towards me. He was obviously very aggravated.

"Why?"

"Because it annoys me to no end, and it makes me feel bad!" his voice was clouded by some strange emotion—guilt? Regret? I couldn't pinpoint it.

"Shaun, you know this isn't your fault!" I yelled at him, shaking my head. He went over to his desk again, beginning to pace.

"Really now? Then, then who was it that-that let you out of their sight and let you do that to yourself? Huh?" he had to take off his glasses for a moment, for they had gotten foggy. "This happens _every day, _Rebecca. Please stop."

I looked at Shaun for a long while. His eyes were unfocused, due to his lack of glasses. "Okay." I said, getting up. "For you I'll stop." I walked out, carrying a box in my left arm. It was full of pirated books and movies, stolen from entertainment museums.

I walked down the stairs to load them in the truck, with the other boxes we had loaded the minute we had gotten the news that Lucy was on her way, with Templars most definitely right on her tail.

Lucy. It's been how long? Seven years, since I've last seen her? It felt like just yesterday they were having lunch at Harriet's in the city. But so much has happened since then. I looked down at my hand, as if to prove a point to my inner consciousness.

I leaned back on the edge of the truck, thinking about everything that had happened to me.

* * *

Part Two: I Wear This On My Sleeve

…I laughed nervously as Lucy explained to me her plan.

"And they'll probably rat me out long before, but that's no problem. I'm the best escape artist I know." She laughed.

"And it's only for a couple of months?" I asked.

"Yeah, I should be home by Christmas." She flashed one of her brilliant smiles. No wonder she was so easily agreeable. I felt my fake smile slip away, only the traces of it left. "What's wrong, Rebecca?"

"I have a bad feeling about this, Luce. I have a feeling that they're more than it seems." She tilted her head to the side, still smiling and carefree as ever. She took a bite of her Caribbean Salad before answering, visibly stalling.

"I'll be fine. Besides, there's always a failsafe in case something goes wrong. You know that. If I don't respond to a check in, then they send in reinforcements and I get pulled out. That was the first thing I said to you about it." I sighed heavily and picked at my risotto.

Fast forward, to Christmas, 2005. I'm sitting alone, rereading the letter sent to my house a few days ago. Tear tracks are stained on my face as I look through the window, hoping it's some kind of sick joke. 'Lucy Stillman is unable to return for the winter Holidays. She sends her regrets and hopes she can contact you later.'

"Home by Christmas." I whisper as I tear the letter up in pieces, throwing them in the fire.

A few years later, I'm taking my time, drawing out the amazing plan that had occupied my mind. I take a sip of soda next to me, enjoying the buzz it gave me. I had just gotten a letter from Lucy, so I was ecstatic and jumping around. I think I actually started singing the song on the radio, something about holidays, though it was the middle of May. I was set to work, using all kinds of machinery to make something—something Lucy called an Animus. She had given me the gist of how it worked, explaining it to me in depth in a different letter. She was asking me to build it better, faster. And I was going to do just that.

I was working Internal Affairs at that time, because I hated everyone and everyone hated me. One day, I was doodling my Baby (The Animus, which I had dubbed my child) on the margins of a steno pad, when this blip came up on the screen, saying 'Security Breach' in bright red letters. I set down my pencil and clicked on it, opening a picture of a man in his twenties, with glasses and spiked up red-brown hair. His name was Shaun Hastings, and he was apparently quite interested in us Assassins.

I powered up my other monitor and had it run a search under his name. While it did that, I opened up a chat box to his monitor, under the name 'CSO14' I typed in the box, "Welcome to the Creed Securities Website, my name is Rebecca, how can I help you?" We were posing as a security company, but it was completely fake…unless you counted saving the world, "security".

Shaun Hastings had closed the chat box, and I sighed. "So that's how you're going to play it?" I said, adjusting myself in the chair as I tapped into his desktop. Shaun was clicking through dead-end links now, trying to find information, but we had made sure it only reverted back to the home page. With a tiny sigh as I broke down his firewall, I closed the page on his desktop, shaking his mouse on the screen. "Too easy." I said, looking over his bio page. Apparently, he was part of a newspaper devoted to conspiracy theories, and right at the top of the list? Assassins and Templars. I scoffed as I saw him open up his web browsed again. Turning to my other screen, I saw him go to one of those internet archives. Had he given up?

No. This guy didn't look like a quitter. Instead, he entered the URL for Creed Securities in the search box, and it took him back to the earliest page, which was developed in 2001 by an assassin named Joseph Greer. He looked through the pages chronologically, until he went to a popular search engine. Just as I thought he was going to look up Creed Securities again, he typed in 'hot anal porn'. I felt my mind freeze, and my mouth fall open. This was ridiculous. I looked from his search (which he had actually entered) to the bio on the other computer, blinking incredulously.

The bio said that he had been engaged until recently, to a Patricia Brown. She had died tragically in a car accident not far from where she and Shaun lived. There was a psych report that said Shaun had never gotten over Patricia's death, and was bitter and depressed.

This guy was British. Okay, that was a weird thing to put IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PAGE, but it was a nice thing to know.

As he clicked on a site, I was frantically looking around to see if someone was watching me. More often than not, something like this was a joke. But no one was snickering in their cubicles, no one was standing up. All of a sudden, the porn video came up, and I toggled his keyboard as well. Unfortunately, my toggle didn't work, and the video just rolled. For some reason my volume was all the way up, though we were in a cubicle farm. Moans and loud rock music played through the speakers, and I was scrambling to shut down my computed before anyone walked by.

My _boss_ just happened to be "anyone". He leaned on the sides of my wall, observing with a disdainful expression on his face. "It's—it's the…it's not me!" I attempted to explain, but it seemed impossible. I was sooo fired. My boss walked away just as I hit the mute button.

I smashed my head on the table over and over again.

Angry, I looked back up. Shaun had pointed his mouse right at the poor girl's ass, and was circling around it. In the URL box, I typed "very mature" before I closed the screen. Shaun opened up WordPad, and started typing his message.

"Who are you people?" he asked me.

"People who enjoy their privacy." I replied.

"Who are you people?" he asked again. I sighed and sat back in my chair, searching for an answer. I came up with the one we were supposed to give.

"People who enjoy their privacy. Now, stay out of this, or I will wipe every file you have on your hard drive, and your back up as well."

Shaun closed the window, and I sat back, watching as he shut down the computer. I stared at the picture of him hard before I closed the screen.

I returned to my doodling.

A couple of days later, the same thing happened. "Security Breach!" said my computer. I made sure my mute was off, and that my boss was in his office before clicking the link.

Yet again, it was Shaun, lost in the labyrinthine circle of links at the Creed Securities site. I got on the chat box. "Thank you for returning to Creed Securities. My name is Rebecca, how can I help you?"

"Haha. Nice name, I have to admit." Shaun said.

"Our name comes from the principles that everyone should be safe, no matter where in the world." I replied easily.

"Does that mean by killing people?" he asked. Jeez, he was right to the point.

"No, of course not. Creed Securities is meant to protect the people of the world, not cause harm to them, as others may." I was feeling bored by this Shaun guy. I opened his bio, wanting to know more about him.

"…Because I think you're all Assassins." I was unnerved by the way he capitalized the word. Obviously he had done his homework.

"Okay let's cut the crap. You're in way over your head, Mr. Hastings." I sent, looking down at the newer entries. Apparently, he had recently become one of the Templars' newest watched.

"It doesn't surprise me that you know my name." He sent quickly. "And I can protect myself, Miss Rebecca."

With a snarky edge, I replied, "You do know you're being watched."

"Yes."

"Not just by us, though."

"What?" he asked, obviously caught off guard.

"Templars have you being followed. They're going to kill you, if you'd like to know." I said, feeling slightly satisfied.

"You're lying." He said.

"Nope. Can't bluff it about something this serious." I said.

"Aww, she cares about me." He said. I felt my face get hot.

"I could just let you die…" I said, adding the ellipses because I felt like it.

"That's pretty cruel. Tell me, are you feminist?" this offended me, and I more than half-wanted to reach through the screen and strangle this guy.

"When it comes to assholes like you." I said aloud. "You can go to hell, Mr. Hastings." I typed.

"You too, love." For a second I forgot that he was British. But then that picture of him on the bio invaded my mind.

"Don't you want to live?" I asked.

"Maybe." He said. God, this sounded like the Suicide Hotline.

"We can protect you. You seem like a smart guy, you could help us out." I said, looking down the hall. My boss was still in his office.

"How can I help you?" he asked. A helpless smile crossed over me, and I told him to go to Piccadilly Circle in two weeks, if he wasn't dead by then. He agreed, and I logged off with a smile. I was sooo getting fired for this.

In two weeks, I was in London, amidst the cars and busses whirling around me. I had a black beanie on, and a shirt that said 'Go 3 Your Own City". I was looking around for Shaun, who was supposedly wearing a black trench coat and a blue pageboy cap.

It was summer, which meant it was raining. I held a black umbrella over my head, scanning the thin crowd for Shaun. Within seconds I had found him. He was standing under an awning, looking nervous and anxious. I sauntered over to him. "So." I said, in my fake British accent.

"Yes." He said. His voice was bitter, and strangely interesting. He'd only said a word.

Still using the accent, I said, "Let's go someplace more private." He nodded once and began to follow me down the street. Seconds after we turned a corner, I felt two sets of eyes on us: one behind us and one above us. "Don't be alarmed, but we're being watched." I said under my breath. I was having fun with the accent.

"Templars?" he asked.

"Not sure. Most likely." I turned a sharp corner I didn't know was there and started running down it. Shaun was right behind me, and he said to go left. I complied and found myself back in Piccadilly. Shaun led me by my arm into a tiny hole-in-the-wall café and sat us down in the back. My umbrella had been lost in the chase, so I was soaking wet.

"So. You're Rebecca." He said, leaning forward, examining me with those emotionless brown eyes. I kept a neutral face, thinking about Lucy and how she'd have sent a letter in the time I was in London.

"Crane. Rebecca Crane." I said. I felt like I should hold out my hand. I had dropped the accent, now that we were alone.

"I knew you were American. You didn't have to put on the whole fake accent thing back there." He said, smiling down at the table. I saw he still had an engagement ring on.

"I know. I was just messing with you." I smirked at him from the corner of my mouth. "So, first thing we do is get the hell out of here, unseen." I said, sighing. I kept one eye on the door, waiting for the our two tails to walk in and shoot us dead. A waitress came up from out of nowhere, making me jump.

"'Ello, Shaun." She said, smiling. Her teeth were all crooked, but her face was beautiful. She obviously liked him.

"Hello Mary." He said, smiling back slightly. I decided I liked his smile at that moment. "I'll have the usual, and she'll have a coffee." He said. I rolled my eyes. The typical American stereotype: coffee. I _hated_ coffee.

Mary stole a look at me, asking a question with her eyes. I shook my head no quickly. She smiled, relieved. "Be right back then." She said, disappearing into the back.

"After we're out of here, we'll skedaddle on over to the hideout in Italy." I said, making my fingers walk along the table.

"Am I allowed to get my stuff?" he asked, leaning back.

"One bag. That's what I have. That and Baby." I said, almost before I couldn't help myself.

"You have a kid?" he asked, his eyes wide behind his glasses.

"No, I have a…I'll explain when we're there." I said, looking around the café.

Mary came back with our drinks then, and we drank them in silence.

Fast forward to August 2009. I'm working on Baby with Shaun, who has finally opened up to me about his life. Me? I'd been jabbering to him the entire time. He was just beginning to mention Patricia, his late fiancée. We were just adjusting the retractable HUD when Shaun announced that he had to go to the bathroom, though he still called it the loo out of force of habit. I turned the rock music up louder in Shaun's absence.

I picked up a crescent wrench, and started adjusting the bolts. There was one deep inside the machine that I couldn't reach. I sighed and made my hand smaller, reaching into the tiny crevice. I found the bolt and started twisting it manually. With my right hand, I wiped at my forehead, for the sun was in my eyes. When the bolt was tight enough, I started to pull my hand back.

A sickening feeling in my stomach emerged as I started jerking my hand around, trying to get it free. "Shaun…" I called, but there came no answer. "Shaun, I'm stuck!" I called, laughing a bit. There was a sick feeling creeping into my stomach. I tried to reach for the music, but it was too far away.

Something in the machine started to whir, and the HUD with the not-yet-dulled edge was arching toward me, and I was wrist-deep in the head console. "Shaun!" I yelled, scared. I tried to pull my hand away harder, breaking my thumb with a sick _crack_. I shouted in pain, but I still couldn't move my hand. I looked around for something to knock myself out with; something to throw at the door, but everything was more than an arms-length away. "Shaun Hastings! Help!" I screamed, tears flowing down my face as the HUD suddenly snapped forward, slicing through tissue, muscle, sinew, and bone and in reverse order until my hand was severed from my body. I fell back against the floor with a _thump_.

I just stared at the stump for awhile, wondering why my hand had gone numb all of a sudden. Then I saw the blood pouring out of the Animus, and I passed out.

I woke up slowly after that. I felt hungry. I looked over at the tray on the table to my left and reached for the bagel, when I realized _that wasn't my hand reaching for the bagel._ It was a robot hand, a bright red, like Ironman. I stared at it closely, watching the metal plates move with my thoughts. I touched my other hand to it.

The metal was a sickening cold. I grabbed the bucket next to the hospital bed and threw up in it. When I was done, I started crying horrible heart-wrenching sobs that brought a nurse into the room with a mind-duller. I refocused, but my vision was as blurry as the time I had put on Shaun's glasses.

I felt someone take my right hand. Their voice led me out of my stupor. "Rebecca. I'm so sorry." They whispered. "I'm so sorry…"

* * *

Part Three: Not Much a Poet

I blinked myself out of the past and walked upstairs. I took a moment to stare out the window, and I was stunned by what I saw.

A great crane was sitting on the roof of a nearby building, watching me with large black eyes. It seemed to be bloodred, but whether this was from the sun or if it was normally like that, I didn't know. It walked over towards the building, and turned around. One of its wings was badly injured. I let out a small sound of pain. This was ridiculous. the bird was red because it was covered in _blood_. I covered my mouth with my hands, and watched in horror as it threw itself off the building, ending its life four stories below.

I was in shock as I entered the Animus room and walked over to where Shaun was, at his computer. I pulled him up by the sleeve and hugged him close. "I'm so sorry about Patricia." I whispered to his shirt.

"I've gotten over it." He said, though there was still sorrow in his voice.

"How?" I asked, holding him closer to me.

"I found you."

* * *

_Awww isn't that sweet? You never really expect them to be friends...and I'm sorry about the Christmas part, I was deliriously tired. I still am, and it's 9:45 in the morning. Whatever, I guess._

_I'm going to start a poll, to see which character I should do next. (urhurhur)_

_Review per favore!  
_


	3. The Novice

_I knooow this isn't really an 'Assassin's Creed' character, but I had this dream about four months ago, wrote it down. It's very, VERY vague, and the gender of the speaker could be either. Doesn't matter, really. But letting you know, I'm a chick. And stuff. Yup. So..._

**Disclaimer: I REEEALLY can't see how I can be prosecuted for this but if I WAS in fact, prosecuted, you'd all know that Ubisoft reads FanFiction. Oh great, now there's going to be a 'Sucked Into Game' toggle in Brotherhood. Let's just not divide this by zero, okay? I don't own Assassin's Creed.**

* * *

I stood on the sidewalk, the sun in my eyes, but it didn't matter. What mattered was the goal, the end that justified the means. I rocked back onto my heels, trying to look inconspicuous to the crowd milling about behind me and the cars crawling forward in front of me. I was dressed in a yellow tank top, the color representing me. I had on jean shorts and brown tennis shoes, the uniform clothing for our entire group. The building behind me was a drycleaners, one of many in this part of the city. It was made of brick and stucco, and it was obviously family-owned by the way people wouldn't cast a second glance at it. I walked backwards a few steps, maneuvering my way through the crowd blindly until I hit the shade and the coolness of the brick. I sighed and leaned back on it, my hair sticking to the jagged edges like Velcro. I felt hot and sticky but the details didn't matter.

The cars pulled forward, stopping and going like the ebb and flow of the sea. I didn't include this in my report. I closed my eyes and concentrated. When I opened my eyes, they were shrouded in black, accentuated with outlines of white and faint bursts of color here and there. I looked around. There were three blue dots in various windows of buildings around the square, and five blue dots in cars all along the street. These were my instructors. They judged whether I would move on to the next rank. In some cars were red dots. These people were suspicious of my actions. As they drove by, I could clearly see them staring me down from behind their tinted windows. Some looked like mobsters, others looked like paranoid folks from uptown. They were all the same. I didn't say this in my report, only that they were "enemies, suspecting of my actions". Details didn't matter.

I concentrated on the normal look of things and color began to flow back, light making its way into my surroundings. Buildings returned to being buildings, cars became cars and I became me again. I remembered which cars were red and which ones were blue, and I counted the people in each car. I knew the guidelines. No more than one person in the car. No babies, no kids, no car-seats. It can't be a convertible. It can't be a bright color. It has to be from this decade. The tires can't be worn. It can't have any distinguishable marks on it. It has to have four doors. This was as close as it got to details.

I picked out several different cars in the lineup, and all of them passed the test but I let them pass. They were the instructors' cars. Of course they pick all the good ones. I sighed and looked around, for something they wouldn't expect for me to do.

I checked my watch. I still had ten minutes to get to the rendezvous point on Fifth and Harrison. It was less than a mile away. I could run, or even walk. I could take the bus, or the subway. No. I had to take a car. The sun had made its way to my feet, and I felt my toes begin to roast. I didn't include this in my report. I would've been demoted first thing if I did.

A man, about ten years older than me, and brandishing a scar on the left side of his lip, came up to me, leaning against the wall as I did. He was dressed in running clothes: gray T-shirt, blue running shorts, white shoes. I looked away, crossing my arms. "What're you doing?" he asked, low enough for me to hear.

"Shopping." I said. Really? "Shopping"? Where did _that_ come from? For some reason, I wondered whether I should mention this in my report.

"Well, the rendezvous point has changed." He said. I looked up, but didn't acknowledge him. "I'll tell you, if you get a car in the next thirty seconds."

"Fine." I saw him cross the street. I looked around for a car I could bust. How long would it take for me to throw the driver out, close the door, and make it to the intersection?

I saw my ride. It was across the street. It was lime green and black, and I had counted it out ten minutes ago. It was too flamboyant for my uses. But that was the car I was taking. It was unoccupied, the driver in a store or in the park. The city was loud. A couple of horns honked at me as I yanked open the door (it was open, so the driver wouldn't be too far) and slipped in. I pulled out the bottom of the steering column and found the two wires I needed to use: it was always the red and green. I twisted them both together and I felt the engine purr to life beneath me. The clock was now blinking 12:00 AM. I had reset the entire car. I didn't put this in my report.

The man knocked on the window. Using the switch, I rolled it down. "Third floor of the parking structure on Grant and Seventeenth." He said, and I sped off. Seventeenth Street was on the other side of town. I pulled into the park, the ground shaking beneath me. My teeth rattled and I had a hard time keeping my hands on the steering wheel. I didn't put this in my report, either.

With the people around me screaming and yelling, I had a hard time blocking them out as I made my way south on Franklin, passing stoplights and other cars. I rode the curb a couple of times. I had five minutes. I was at Tenth now. I let the breath I hadn't realized I had been holding in out as I turned into a side alley. Honking twice at the car in front of me, a white sedan, I braced myself and rode entirely on the sidewalk, holding down the horn the entire time. I didn't hit anything until I got to the parking structure specified, where a streetlamp seemed to pop out of nowhere and clip the side of my car. I shouted in surprise and stepped on the gas, propelling me forward. Entering in the west side of the structure, I bypassed security unnoticed and raced up to the third floor.

There were four other cars there when I arrived. Their drivers were all resting on the hoods of their vehicles. I parked my own car in the circle they had made. There were three cars missing. Undoing the hotwire, I got out of the car. I still had thirty seconds, by the look of my watch. I gazed around at my peers, with their beige and dark green towncars. They looked down on my own car, some of them scoffing loudly.

I heard a door open and close. I looked over at where it had come from. The man in the running shorts was walking towards our group. I looked back at the other cars. No one else had pulled in, so I assumed that we were all here.

"Well, you all did fairly well," he said, flashing his eyes over to me. "For a group of novices."

* * *

_Title can be credited to my incessant boredom and the vagueness of this chapter in general. Fun times. Review please!_


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